


bathed in your quiet

by nepheIIe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Age Difference, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, Secret Identity, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Yearning, and, basically this is a jonsa star wars/the mandalorian au that literally no one asked for, but i decided to write anyways, force sensitive!sansa, lots of, mandalorian!jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:29:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29504847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepheIIe/pseuds/nepheIIe
Summary: The Man watches the Girl and the Girl watches him back. The baby coos, but no one moves a muscle. Her eyes are the bluest he's ever seen, even through the visor of his helmet. She's young, and scared, and he is supposed to bring her and the baby back into the hands of the Imps.Dank Farrik,the Man thinks. And then he shoots.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 106





	1. The Ranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sylviadraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviadraft/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!
> 
> okay so listen, if you haven't seen the mandalorian yet and you plan to, be advised that this first chapter contains major spoilers from s01e01. from chapter two forward the story deviates from show canon but i will still be using some of the plot points presented in the show, so if you're someone who doesn't like to be spoiled then maybe you shouldn't read this. that being said, i've incorporated some asoiaf elements into the star wars universe, so while some things are the same, other things are very different, and of course the fact that this is a love story will heavily influence the plot and how the events will unfold.
> 
> this is dedicated to anni, who's been my number one supporter while i was writing this wip. she's been helping me a lot and she's the biggest star wars fan i know. you should definitely check out her ao3 if you enjoy sw fanfiction, because she's so talented and she deserves all the praise in the world. anni is also a kind, compassionate human being, who's been a beacon of strength to me many times in the years we've known each other, so i dedicate this to her, hoping that seeing this story being posted will only brighten the light that lives inside her.

Another day.

Another hunt.

Another forgotten planet, hidden away in the corners of the Outer Rim.

This one is cold, lifeless. Endless miles of snow and ice stretch as far as the eye can see.

The Man doesn’t mind. It reminds him of home, this frosty place. Where he comes from, before all this, before joining the creed, it was cold. Maybe not as cold as this planet, but it was cold, and there was snow everywhere. A memory flashes in his mind of building castles and playing with children. But that was  _ before,  _ and he tends to push these thoughts away as quickly as possible, because  _ before  _ doesn’t exist anymore, and there’s no point in wasting time thinking about it. There’s only forward, only the next hunt, the next catch, the next payday and the never dying need to provide for those who are like him. They’re the only ones left, and they must care for each other, and keep on tradition, as it is expected of them.

_ This is the way. _

The Man moves, his tracking fob beeping louder the closer he gets to the small cantina. Can that even be called a cantina? The Man doesn’t care. He has one goal today, which is to catch his last quarry, so he can go back to Nevarro and collect his payment. The other three are already frozen in carbonite, safely stored away on his ship. This last bounty is his ticket back, for a brief period of time until he collects his new pucks, and goes on hunting again. This has been his life for almost a decade, an endless cycle of hunting and killing that he’s used to by now. Since the rise of the Empire, since the destruction of his home, he and the remaining members of the creed take turns on doing what they do best: survive. The Free Folk must remain free, and that means death to those in their way, whether the Man likes it or not.

On this planet, he kills three before getting to the quarry. Necessary deaths to a necessary catch. It’s a Mythrol, an excessively chatty one, and the Man is quick to throw him in carbonite after they’re settled inside the Razor Crest. The quarry had the audacity to complain about the Man’s ship, but this is like home to him, so he won’t have that. He’s more familiar with the hard metal of the Crest than he is with any other surface he’s ever encountered. He could fly the ship with his eyes closed, find his way around in the dark, break it apart and put it back together if he had to. The Crest is part of him, as much as his armor, and he doesn’t enjoy it when people, especially quarries, question him for still piloting a pre Imperial ship. So after dealing with a small incident involving a very hungry Ravinak, the Man is pleased to hear the sound of the carbonite freezing the Mythrol, leaving him to his usual solitude as he sets the ship’s coordinates to Nevarro. The Man then leaves the cockpit, glad to be alone and able to remove his armor so he can wash himself. This is the first shower he takes in a week, and he marvels at the sensation of water running down his skin. He doesn’t get to feel much while wearing his full armor. He can see everything, hear everything, things that would be impossible for any other humans and most species, given the assets of his helmet, but he can’t feel the wind on his face, or even the cold of that half forgotten planet, the temperature registered on his visor but barely felt on his own body. So to the Man, washing himself is a sacred moment, a moment where he can use his touch, his scent, where he can use the senses that are hidden away by the weight of the Beskar steel. These moments are precious to him, they don’t happen often, the Man’s life is a busy one and he doesn’t get to indulge in showers daily, so when he gets the chance he revels at the feel of water on his spine, down his chest, drenching his hair and beard, and he touches himself, strokes his member slowly, allowing some of the ever going tension on his body to be released along with his own pleasure. The Man gasps and groans in his solitude, and after the act he cleans himself again, thoroughly, with a simple bar of soap and the feel of his own calloused fingers around him. These moments allow himself to remain human, to forget his hunting nature for a while, something that was taught to him with years and years of training. When he's in the freshner is the only time the Man allows himself to be truly vulnerable, to feel in ways he’s not used to anymore, and that is why these moments are like a prayer to him, the only time where he can let go from the responsibility and duties that come with wearing the armor.

_ This is the way. _

After he’s finished, the Man dresses himself completely, even if he is alone in the ship. The code dictates that he must always be ready, must always expect a threat, must never let his guard down, so when he lays down on his cot for a quick rest, is with the full armor on, even his heavy Beskar helmet, shielding him from anyone and anything that might sneak up on him, no matter how impossible that might be. With a last scan of the whole ship, the Man lets his eyes close, focusing on the sound of the Crest flying through hyperdrive, soon to reach his destination and begin a new journey.

* * *

Nevarro is a volcanic planet, and for that alone the Man hates it.

He’s used to cooler temperatures, to greens and whites and brown, not the grey ash that fills this land. There’s not really a choice for him anymore, and therefore he doesn’t complain, but deep down he hates whenever he needs to get back and do the transactions.

He hates Oberyn even more, if only because the man seems so carefree, something that the Man will never be. Oberyn smiles easily and flirts often and cheats on games and he’s everything the Man despises but secretly wishes he could be. That is something he’ll never admit to himself, though, because the Free Folk have no reason to envy or want or hate. The Free Folk are free, and therefore, better. They have no need for primal urges and they have no need for identity either. They’re one and the same, and they show that in the unity of their armors, in the hiding of their faces. They don’t share their names, not even to each other, because there’s no reason to. They are a unity and together they follow the creed, keeping it alive, and that’s all that matters.

_ This is the way. _

“Ranger!”

The Man sighs heavily while Oberyn’s voice echoes through the cantina. It’s not that he dislikes the nickname per say, but he dislikes the way Oberyn feels like drawing attention to him whenever they meet, as if he’s proud to have a Free Folk as a friend, when in reality they’re nothing more than acquaintances. Oberyn runs the Guild, and the Man is part of the Guild so that he can operate as a bounty hunter and earn credits for his people. That is the only reason why he endures Oberyn, and he sometimes wishes that he could shoot the man in the face just so that he would shut up. The nickname was given to him by someone else, years ago, because of how his armor resembles the one of a soldier, and that’s how the Man introduces himself to people who need him to have a name. He usually dislikes these people, and he dislikes Oberyn the most, but he must complete the transaction and therefore he must appear amicable to him.

“That was fast,” Oberyn tells him as the Man sits down. He offers him a drink and the Man stares at him, Oberyn’s brown eyes rolling at the lack of response. “Did you catch them all?”

At that, the Man places the four tracking fobs on the table, no longer beeping as their quarries have been captured. “Of course you did, Ranger,” Oberyn says with a grin, eyeing the beacons. “We'll begin the off-load.” Then he signals to someone behind the Man, and the Man knows that by the time he gets back to the Crest the frozen bodies will be gone.

“Here you go.”

Oberyn puts four rectangular chips in front of him, and the Man pauses for a moment. Anger rises in him, boils at the pit of his stomach, but when his voice leaves the helmet’s modulator it is leveled and clear. “These are Imperial Credits.”

Oberyn raises an eyebrow at him. “And yet they still spend.”

“I don’t know if you heard, but the Empire is gone.”

The Man’s tone is clipped, low, matter of fact. He has no interest in touching this dirty money, and he will not do so. Oberyn starts to open his lips to protest, but the Man reaches his hand for the tracking fobs, fully intent on taking them back with him.

“Alright, alright, there’s no need for drama.” He reaches into his jacket’s pocket, and the Man hears the sound of chips rattling. “I can do Essosi coins, but I can only pay half.”

“Fine.” The Man drops the beacons and reaches for the credits. Half the paycheck is better than the Empire’s trash, even if it means he'll have to work twice as much. The Free Folk always hated the Empire, but after the war they’ve grown to hate it even more, associating its antics with a symbol of disgust that runs deep through the Man’s veins.

“What do you have for me now?”

“Come on, Ranger, you’ve only just got here. Haven’t you missed us?”

There’s only silence from the Man, and Oberyn sighs heavily, before reaching into his pockets to collect some bounty pucks.

“Alright, I’ve got three bail jumpers, a wanted smuggler—”

“I’ll take them all.”

“Hold on a minute, Ranger.” Oberyn puts his hand over the Man’s gloved one. There’s an urge to pull away, the Man is not familiar with touching others that aren’t his kind, yet he remains still, waiting for Oberyn’s next words. “There are other members of the Guild, you know, and this is all I have.” He smiles. "As much as you're my favorite, I have to save some quarries for the others."

The Man tilts his helmet to the right. “Why so slow?”

“It’s not slow at all, in fact things are busier than ever. They just don’t wanna pay Guild Rates.” Oberyn removes his hand from the Man’s, reaching for his drink. “They don’t mind it if things get sloppy. You know how it is.”

The Man fights the urge to sigh. Is there no honor in this galaxy anymore? Is money all that matters to those who survived the wars? Isn't the New Republic supposed to be doing better than the former regime? He could try to say he’s surprised, but he’s not. Greed is not unknown to him, not by feeling it himself, but by suffering the consequences of being near greedy individuals, folks who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt you if that meant getting a coin for it. Some would argue that the Man is like that, the same breed as those who seek credits at any cost, but the Man is different. He serves a higher purpose, and he has an obligation to the others of his kind.

“And your highest bounty?”

“Five thousand.”

Now the man does sigh, frustration taking over him. “That won’t even cover fuel these days.”

Oberyn is quiet for a while, eyes to his drink. Something in his manner shifts, and the Man notices that he chooses his next words very carefully before speaking them out loud. Oberyn leans over the table, voice quiet, and the Man senses that whatever he might say will have an effect on him that might last longer than expected.

“Listen, there is one job." He pauses, eyes checking around, his voice lowering to a whisper. "No puck. Face to face. Direct Commission.  _ Deep Pocket.” _

“Underworld?” the Man asks, intrigued, and a little apprehensive, even if he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t appreciate working illegal jobs anymore, he’d been too reckless in his youth and that had cost him. Joining the Guild was supposed to keep him away from uncertain waters, but he must do his job and provide for his people, so there’s no choice here.

_ This is the way. _

“All I know is there’s no chain code.” Oberyn reaches into his pocket again. His robes are bright and colorful, something that the Man would never wear himself, but he has to admit it suits him. Many pockets are hidden in them, filled with many things. The Man can see them all with his x-ray vision. Mostly knives and credits, but also a few personal items that seem to mean something to Oberyn. The Man carries nothing but his armor and his rifle, and a necklace which he usually pays no mind to, but keeps close, to remember  _ before  _ and why life could never be the same again. “Do you want the chit or not?”

Is the way Oberyn speaks, as if he’s daring him. That’s what finally makes up his mind. The Man grabs the chit from his fingers, already getting up and leaving before Oberyn has a chance to speak. He still hears it, though, a shout through the crowded cantina, resonating with humor. “I knew you had it in you, Ranger!”

And so a new journey begins.

* * *

The Man doesn’t appreciate the meeting place he’s led to.

Too many droids, too many automatic doors, too many chances of being trapped inside. High security, from what he can tell, and a strange atmosphere, something in his gut that tells him this is not a good place. When the last door opens, he understands why.

Stormtroopers.

Four of them, fully armed, their white suits dirty and roughed up, their fingers ready to fire. They stare at him and he stares back, all black visors through their helmets, but he knows they must be thinking the same as he is. This is the face of the enemy. The Man has killed many troopers in his life, and the troopers have killed countless of the Man’s kind, if not by their own sloppy hands then with the aid of droid-like weapons of mass destruction. He didn’t think Oberyn would send him here, but Oberyn is all business, even if what remains of the Empire is involved, and the Man should’ve asked more questions before accepting this job.

“Oberyn said you were coming.”

The voice that speaks to him is weasel like, sneaky and calculated, the voice of someone used to getting their way. It's the voice of mischief, and the Man is immediately suspicious of every word he hears from that voice. Past the troopers there’s a desk, and sitting behind it there are two strangers. The Client, the Man presumes, given his nicely dressed state, dark colored robes made from fine silk, and the authority in which he holds himself upon the troopers, and a man standing behind him, looking a little unsure, his white clothing suggesting that he is a scientist of some kind, maybe even a healer. The Man starts to walk forward, mindful of every move in the room, including his own, eyes on the Client and his condescending look.

“What else did he say?”

“He said you were the best in the parsec.”

The Man is not cocky. His arrogance led him to misfortune in his youth, so he tries to contain himself when it comes to his own self opinion, but he's also aware there’s not many in the galaxy who can do what he does, in the way he does it. He knows his reputation precedes him, and that’s a good thing, because that means more bounties to catch and more credits to collect. More for the Free Folk, for the caring of foundlings, for the sustenance of his people. That’s all the Man cares about, and that is why he agrees on sitting down in front of the Client, his right hand pressed firmly to his blaster in case there’s any need for it.

"He also said you were expensive. Very expensive."

The Client pushes a covered object towards the Man. He then removes the cloth, revealing what the Man thinks might be a trick.

"Beskar?" he asks, voice unsure.

"Go ahead," the Client gestures. "It's real."

The Man picks up the metal with his hands, feels the heavy weight of it, notices the perfectly cut shape, the Empire symbol on its corner. He knows what that means, and it fills him with rage, but holding the Beskar keeps him steady, grounded, the metal's weight familiar to his hands. He listens carefully to the Client's next words.

"This is only a down payment. I have a camtono of Beskar waiting for you upon delivery of the assets."

"Assets?" the Man asks.

"Yes. There's two of them. They are together, and I need you to bring them to me."

_ "Alive." _

That's the first word the scientist speaks, and his voice is shaky with fear, but there's a fierceness in his eyes nonetheless. The Man regards him for a moment, his defensive posture, before the Client speaks again.

"Yes, alive, if possible. Although I acknowledge that bounty hunting is a complicated profession. This being the case, proof of termination for both assets is also acceptable," he tilts his head "for a lower fee."

The scientist takes a step forward, his voice rushed. "That's not what we agreed—"

"I'm simply being pragmatic," the Client says, eyes still on the Man. A moment of silence passes, where it seems that the scientist wants to say more, but he keeps quiet, and the Man is now sure of the hierarchy between those in this room. The Client will always have the last word, so he is the one the Man should concern himself with.

"Let's see the pucks."

The Client gives a side smile, and the dislike on the Man's stomach only increases. Mischief and dishonesty, yes, the Client reeks of it. "No such thing. We can only offer you the tracking fobs." He signals with his hand, and the scientist puts two fobs on the table, that the Man is quick to collect.

"What's the chain code?"

"We can only provide the last four digits."

That is more than unusual. The Man's common sense screams at him, telling him to get out right now, to leave the Beskar behind along with the suspicious deal these Imps are trying to lure him into. But something in his gut keeps him seated. Maybe it's the weight of the Beskar in his hand. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's something else, something calling to him, a higher purpose that he has yet to discover. So the Man stays, yet asks, astonished at the lack of information.

"Their ages? That's all you can give me?"

The Client moves forward.  _ "Yes.  _ They're fifty and twenty three."

Father and son. Must be, the Man thinks, and the job seems even more strange. What would the remaining of the Empire want with a family?

"We can also give you their last reported positional data. Between  _ that  _ and the fob, a man of your skill should make short work of this."

The Client smiles again, and the Man decides that he hates him more than anyone he's ever encountered before. There's scheming behind that smile, and also cruelty, hidden behind those pale green eyes. Still, a job is a job, and there's Beskar awaiting for him in his return, so the Man nods once before leaving, the tracking fobs in his pocket already beeping with coordinates.

* * *

The Armorer makes him a new pauldron with the acquired Beskar. It is good that she does, because upon arriving at Arvala-7, the Man is attacked by blurrgs of all things, and nearly loses his arm in the process, hadn't it been for the Ugnaught that helps him fight them. He then speaks about the many who have come seeking the quarries for three moons now, and how they all have died. The Ugnaught teaches the Man how to ride a blurrg, and he gives him food and shelter in the process of healing his wounds. The Ugnaught is the closest to a friend the Man has had in awhile, and for that the Man will always be grateful.

As they ride together through the great desert of Arvala-7, the Ugnaught tells the Man that he hopes he'll finally bring back peace to this valley. He knows the Man is Free Folk, he knows the stories, and he believes the Man might be the one to end the cycle of killing that started once the campsite was set on the planet. The Ugnaught does not know who the assets the Man seeks are, but he knows that this chase is what’s causing death and destruction, and he hopes that the Man is successful on his hunt, so that the slaughtering might end. As they part, the Ugnaught wishes good fortunes on the Man's journey, and in return the Man makes a promise to himself to not forget the one who has helped him only in exchange for a simple blurrg. There is no greed in the Ugnaught, no hate. He seeks the quiet,  _ peace, _ much like the Man himself, and the Man envies him for his simple life as a farmer, if only a little. They part ways at the edge of the campsite, and the Man stares ahead, the tracking fobs on his pocket beeping louder now that he is closest to his prey.

* * *

This is the easy part, getting here.

The hard part is getting inside the campsite.

It's not exactly a campsite per say. It's actually a whole facility, with solid rock walls and armed guards. Niktos, if the Man is not mistaken, packing hard and looking ready to defend whatever it is that's hiding inside the compound.

That's one part of the problem. The other part is a bounty droid, an IG unity that has absolutely no intelligence, and decides that the best course of action is to announce its position to the Niktos, shooting its way inside. That is why the Man hates droids so much. Their inability to think, to use common sense, to strategize, makes them dangerous and borderline useless. With the element of surprise, he could've gotten in and out with the quarries without having to risk his own skin. Now, he sees himself trapped along with the bounty droid, an unexpected alliance that ends up going their way when the Man grabs a hold of a massive automatic shooter and finishes annihilating the Niktos. So much death for a hunt. Whoever's inside must be precious, the Man thinks, before he and the IG unit manage to shoot their way through the massive steel door, their tracking fobs beeping uncontrollably now that they are within a mile range of the assets.

There's a small pod, round shaped, hidden in plain sight. That's strange, the Man thinks, that the signal is coming from inside the pod, but nonetheless he opens it, and he's thankful for the helmet shielding his face, preventing anyone from seeing his shocked expression.

A baby. 

A green, wrinkled baby, with fuzzy large ears, the biggest eyes he's ever seen, and tenee-tiny hands, hidden away behind a blanket. The Man doesn't know what it is, he has never seen such a creature before, but it's a baby alright, and that strikes him the wrong way.

"They said fifty and twenty three," he says, more to himself than anything.

"Species age differently," replies the IG unit. "It could live many centuries. Sadly, we'll never know."

The droid's arm begins to lift, gun armed and ready, but the man stops him. "No."

"My instructions are very clear. I'm supposed to bring it back de—"

The Man shoots the droid, not even bothering to look back as the discarded metal corpse hits the ground. This is a baby. This quarry is a baby. A child. A child like he was. A child in danger, without a protector, a child in need. The Man remembers the  _ before,  _ and the pain and suffering, his eyes focused on the baby. There's an involuntary movement of his own hand, reaching for the child's tiny fingers as it reaches back, and the Man is lost in sad memories, of snow and blood and war, when he hears a voice.

"Touch him and you'll lose that hand."

The Man freezes, mind back in the present. He looks to the side, to the corner he forgot to check in his awe of the baby. A human girl stands, pointing a small blaster at him. The Client's voice comes back in a whisper.  _ Fifty and twenty three. _ The Man stares at the second asset, the younger one, by his calculations. It must be. Dressed in simple dark clothing, black long hair tied into a braid, blue eyes fierce and locked on him, two hands on the blaster, her grip weak and shaking, with fear most likely, fear at the knowledge of the countless dead outside, the ones meant to protect them both.

The Man watches the Girl and the Girl watches him back. The baby coos, but no one moves a muscle. Her eyes are the bluest he's ever seen, even through the visor of his helmet. She's young, and scared, and he is supposed to bring her and the baby back into the hands of the Imps.

_ Dank Farrik,  _ the Man thinks. And then he shoots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so this chapter is basically an introduction of jon's character and how his mindset was before encountering sansa/alayne and the baby. Idk if anyone is actually interested in a continuation, so depending on how much feedback i get I'll post chapter two on thursday night (it is already written and it's sansa's pov). after that, the chapters will have mixed POVs from both jon and sansa, and my plan is to update this fic at least once a week, but that's gonna rely entirely on you guys, since i'm not sure this au is something that people want to read, so please let me know your thoughts in the comment section! also FYI english is not my first language and any mistakes made here are my own.


	2. The Girl

Alayne thought they'd have more time.

Three moons. Three moons was all that they managed to last. Bounty hunters would come and go, trying to break into the compound, trying to steal them away, and always they were defeated. _Always._ Until now.

Standing in front of her is a warrior from the Free Folk. She knows this because she remembers her lessons, back when she was still a child, and life wasn't so bad. The Empire ruled but there was peace in her home, at least for a while, and being who she was, she was educated on all things she needed to know, from the fall of the Republic to the rise of the Empire and the wars that happened in between. She had not studied the Fall, though, the destruction of the Death Stars, nor the rise of the New Republic, because by then she had already been captured and she was no longer herself. She was Alayne, and Alayne she remains, even after managing to escape. And Alayne thought she'd had more time, she thought she could try and build a life for herself and the kid, thought that they could learn together what he had forgotten and she never got a chance to understand. But that was all a dream, it seems. A silly dream for a silly girl.

Alayne thought she'd stopped being silly the day Westeros blew up.

The blaster shot is what brings her back to reality. Her own gun flies from her hands before she even has a chance to pull the trigger. It's not like she knows what she's doing but she had to try. She had to. It ends up being useless because the warrior shoots and she startles, takes a step back, losing her foot and falling to the ground. What freaking a mess. She can't protect herself, she can't protect the kid. There's no hope anymore, and she doesn't understand why she thought she could do it in the first place.

The warrior takes a step forward, blaster still pointed at her. She closes her eyes, prepares for the kill shot. She hopes it's painless. She hopes it's quick. She's endured so much already in this life, death might even be welcomed now. Maybe this is her ticket out from all the suffering. Except she would never see the kid again, and she would never find her brother, and there's just so much that she wants to do. There's still so much out there, so many worlds waiting for her, and death right now seems like the most unfair thing that has happened to her so far, seems like ending her journey before it even had a chance to begin. She really thought she'd had more time. Still, her eyes stay closed, and she waits, waits for a shot that doesn't come.

A minute passes, and nothing. Alayne opens her eyes to see the warrior standing near her, their blaster lowered, posture relaxed. She doesn't understand what's taking them so long, and suddenly she's angry, angry at this person she doesn't know, this person that has managed to destroy her sanctuary, to crush her hope, and is now taking their time to kill her.

"Just shoot. I'm not running."

Her voice is raspy and harsh and she's angry. She makes a point of letting them know, because she still has her courage, it seems, and she won't run away. She won't abandon the kid, she won't be a coward. She will be brave and strong, like her mother and father and siblings once were, her _real_ family, not Alayne's. Yet Alayne is also strong, and fierce and witty. And she will not run, and she won't close her eyes anymore, she will stare at her death sentence with her head high and she will do her best to keep her strength.

"I can bring you in warm or I can bring you in cold. Your choice."

A man's voice comes through the helmet's modulator. Alayne should've guessed, given his size, the way he carries himself. Still, he's not giving her much of a choice here. Die now at the hands of a stranger or die later at the hands of the people she despises the most. She's got half a mind to tell the man to _fuck off_ when the kid coos, and that catches her attention. His small arms are directed towards her, as if he knows she needs a hug right now. Well, yeah, sure. She definitely needs a hug. In reality, Alayne is trying really hard not to cry. She doesn't want to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her tears. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to go back either. But she has a choice to make, and it must be the right one, for both their sakes.

"You didn't kill him."

The man just looks at her in silence. She tries again. "You didn't kill the baby, you shot the droid."

"I did."

That's all he says. Her blaster is sitting a few feet away from her, nearly vaporized. She's lucky she still has all her fingers. The kid coos again, staring at her with those pleading eyes, and she decides to take a leap of faith. The man didn't kill the child. He could've, yet he didn't. He didn't kill her as well, and that has to count for something, right?

She hopes so, tries to hold on to that feeling.

"Alright," she says, slowly standing, hands above her head. "We'll come with you."

* * *

They've been walking for over an hour, and Alayne is tired.

She won't complain, though. Walking is better than dying. She also won't complain about the fact that her hands are tied, the magnetic handcuffs heavy on her wrists. As long as the kid is fine, and they're both alive, she won't complain. There's been nothing but the sound of their steps, and she thinks this might be the right time to start a conversation, only because she needs to know if the man has a name. She's sure he won't be pleased if she starts calling him tin-head, and she needs to call him something. She is also thirsty, and she could use a break. She's not used to walking long distances, she's not used to straining herself. Her strength comes in other ways, not by physical abilities, and she's starting to feel herself lose her footing, her breathing heavy the more they walk.

She cleans her throat before speaking. "Hmm, sir?" The man doesn't stop walking, doesn't even acknowledge her, and she sighs. Is she even real to him? A real, human person, with thoughts and feelings, or is she just another quarry? She knows he's a bounty hunter. His kind usually are. The little she remembers about the Free Folk is that they're ruthless, killers trained from a very young age, with no faces, no names, just their matching armors and the blood in their hands. She should be terrified of him, and a part of her is, but he didn't kill the kid. He shot the droid. She watched it all happen before her eyes, before her voice found its way out of her throat. She thought all was lost when the warrior and the IG unit blew up the door with an explosion that threw her away from the child's pod. But the man spared him, and he gave her a choice, so he can't be that bad. The girl that Alayne used to be would argue that there's always good in people, even in the worst ones. Alayne is not so sure about that. Some folks can be made of pure evil, but she still needs to try here.

"Sir," she speaks louder, stopping on her tracks. "Can we take a break? I’m thirsty."

The man keeps on walking, the kid's pod following close behind. He doesn't even bother looking back to see if Alayne is following, and she's annoyed at his behavior. Maybe he just doesn't want to have younglings' blood in his hands. Maybe he's a coward, who kills men but can't kill children. The thought makes her furious. Why did he give her a choice, then? Because he sees her as a child? He has no idea of what she's endured, no idea how hard she fought to survive. He doesn't know who she is, and thanks to him, Alayne herself might never get the chance to figure that out.

She sits on the ground, legs crossed. She knows her behavior is immature and most likely pointless, but right now she doesn't care. She's tired, she's thirsty, and she's not being listened to, so she won't obey either, and this strange warrior can go kiss a blurrg's ass for all she cares.

"Hey, cowboy!" She screams, because at this point he won't listen to her low voice. "I'm not moving an inch until you talk to me."

The man stops at that. A moment passes. Slowly, he turns around, and Alayne watches him watch her. The kid coos amiably inside his little pod, watching their exchange. The man starts walking back towards her as he tugs on something from inside of his utility belt. His long strides take him to her in no time, just as she realizes he's holding a long piece of cloth in his hands. "What are you—" but the man lowers himself, pinning her hands with his knee, his weight immobilizing her completely as his hands grab her face. Alayne tries to fight him but he's too strong, hands too big, and in a minute he has her gagged, her furious protests muffled against the old rag. He then lifts himself, pulling her along with him, and next thing she knows is that she’s being thrown over his shoulder like a potato sac, roughly, her stomach hitting his metal pauldron and making her gasp for air. He doesn’t seem to mind, walking back on his tracks, carrying her weight like it’s nothing to him, and Alayne tries to hit and kick her way out, but her blows all land in the metal armor, and soon her knees and wrists are hurting from the effort. They reach the kid, who coos at her, tiny hands waving, clearly amused by the situation, and Alayne closes her eyes, giving up on struggling. This is the most humiliating moment of her life, she’s sure of it, and even the kid is laughing at her. Defeated, she lets her limbs relax, allowing herself to get accustomed with the swaying of the man’s steps. She thinks she could even fall asleep to it if she wasn’t hanging upside down, but at least now she doesn’t have to walk anymore. _Yes, let’s look on the bright side,_ she thinks. _I’m being carried away, completely helpless, to certain death. This really is the dream._

Alayne accepts her defeat with the little grace she has left, mumbling a song in her head as the minutes pass. She's ashamed to admit that from this position she gets a very advantageous view of the man's _behind_ and it's quite... _full._ She snorts to herself, sure that dehydration is the cause of such thoughts. He does have a nice ass though, she can't deny, she'd been staring at it for the last hour. What a strange thing to notice about a captor, but then again, he is covered in armor from head to toe so there's not much else that she can notice. She wonders what he looks like under it, if he's even human, if he ever takes it off. Such questions are natural, she supposes, but she won't ask them aloud. She knows that much about the Free Folk, how particular they are about their traditions. It’s not polite to ask such questions, and courtesy is a lady's armor. The girl Alayne used to be remembers this well, and so does Alayne, because in many situations her etiquette training has been the thing that saved her life. You gotta know how to talk to folks if you’re gonna survive in the Outer Rim, or anywhere really. Sometimes a word can be sharper than a blaster shot, and Alayne always tries to use that at her advantage. Granted, she has had no such luck with the man so far, but that’s not the worst of her problems. She needs to start thinking on a plan for when they reach their final destination. She needs to think about what she’s gonna do when she’s face to face with _Baelish_ again. Alayne sighs, a shiver going through her. She really thought they’d have more time.

Suddenly, her body hits the ground.

The shock of the fall leaves her stunned, combined with the pain she feels from being dropped so abruptly. _Stupid useless cowboy._ Her head is spinning, she can’t find her footing, and there’s noise, too much noise, not only shouting but quick _pews_ that indicate shots are being fired.

Wait.

Shots are being fired.

_The kid._

Alayne lifts herself, looking around. Her vision seems to move in slow motion, like her brain hasn’t fully comprehended what is happening. There’s three men— no, they aren’t human, they’re something else, her brain can’t find the species name now but they look familiar and humanoid and she’s sure she’s studied them in her lessons with Maester Luwin. No, that’s not true, Alayne never had any lessons with any Maesters. But nonetheless she knows what those folks are and her head registers that they’re shooting at her. Well, not only at her, but at the kid, and the man too, who’s shooting back. It’s three against one, and something tells her he could take them easily were it not for the fact that he’s trying to block her and the kid with his own body. _That’s nice,_ she thinks, and what an incoherent thought to have in the middle of gunfire, but she has it anyway, right before she finds her footing and gets up, grabbing the kids pod, closing it shut and pushing it forward with her hands as she runs. She doesn’t have a destination, she just runs, pushing the pod with her, not looking back, and it’s only when a sharp pain hits her in the shoulder that she stops.

Alayne falls, the blow too strong on her body. She hits her head on a rock, and things start spinning. Everything darkens for a second and she wishes she could see stars. She can’t stop though, she has to protect the kid, she has to keep him safe, he’s her only friend in the whole world and he’s a baby and he’s her responsibility and she’s not supposed to let anything happen to him. They still have a lot to learn together, she’s sure they can make it if they keep trying, there’s still so much to do, so much waiting for them out there. She won’t die, not here, not on Arvala-7, parsecs away from what used to be home, surrounded by evil strangers and ruthless cowboys and stinky blurrgs. She won’t die, and neither will the kid, so she’s on her knees, crawling, vision blurry, pushing the kid's pod with her shoulders as she ducks behind a large rock, using it as a shield between them and the gunfire. She sits down, legs crossed, and presses the button to open the pod. The kid peaks at her, his ears low. He’s scared, she can feel that, and she’s scared too. He climbs down from his seat and into her lap, and she hugs him to her chest, trying to catch her breath. _We’re okay,_ she thinks, nose pressed against his tiny wrinkled forehead. _We’re okay and we’re gonna be okay. Everything will be okay. I promise you, everything will be okay._ She feels his tiny hands clinging to her shirt, and she tries to calm her breathing.

Alayne starts whispering the words.

_"I am one with the Force and the Force is with me."_

She breathes through her nose.

_"I am one with the Force and the Force is with me."_

The gunfire stops.

_"I am one with the Force and the Force is with me."_

She hears footsteps coming their way.

_"I am one with the Force and the Force is with me."_

The kids coos, and she lifts her head. The warrior is standing in front of them, armor shiny against the sun. She can see where a few of the blaster shots hit him, most of them barely scratching the metal. Beskar, she remembers from her lessons. That’s what the Free Folk wear, that’s what runs in their forges, the metal extracted from their land. Almost indestructible. Their armors are filled with it, and that’s what makes them even more dangerous.

The man kneels down in front of them. The kid coos at him again, and Alayne looks down. He’s staring at the warrior, eyes curious, and she can’t for the life of her figure out why the kid likes him so much. Then the man moves, and her eyes find his helmet again, staring right into the visor. She feels something on her cheek, and she startles, pulling away. It’s the man’s hand, she realizes. His bare hand, ungloved, strong calloused fingers touching her. He pulls down the gag from her lips.

“Are you okay?”

She blinks back at him, shocked that he’s talking to her. Why? She doesn’t know. She just didn’t expect it, she thinks, that his touch could be so gentle after being so rough to her. The gesture is surprising, leaving her actionless. He moves his hand up, brushing her hair out of her face. No, that’s not what he’s doing, she realizes, as he draws back his hand and she sees the blood on his fingers. _Her_ blood.

He tilts his head to look at her shoulder, and Alayne looks as well. Her shirt sleeve is ripped, the wound bleeding, her flesh exposed. “Girl. Are you okay?” The voice coming from the modulator shows no emotion whatsoever. She looks back at the man, sees her own face reflected on his helmet, forehead bloody, hair a mess, her blue eyes staring back at her.

Then everything fades, and she’s out.

* * *

Alayne comes to it when the night is rising.

She’s laying down on the ground, her head resting on something _soft._ That’s the first thing she notices because there’s not a lot of soft things in Arvala-7. There’s not a lot of things there, period. And yet, her head is carefully laying on something that doesn’t resemble the surface of the planet at all. There’s an itch at the bridge of her nose, and she lifts her hand to scratch at it. That’s when she notices her hands are no longer bound together. She faintly registers a pain on her shoulder, and chills down her arm, the cold night wind hitting her skin. Her sleeve is gone, it seems, and there’s a small pressure on her forehead. After noticing all these things, she hears the noise of fire cracking, feels its heat next to her, and she listens to the kid’s babbling.

At that, she opens her eyes.

She waits for a while to speak, mostly because her throat is dry and her head is spinning, but also because the scene she’s watching is quite amusing. The man is sitting by the fire, a cauterizer pen in hand, trying to fix a wound on his forearm that she hadn't noticed before. The kid keeps climbing down from the pod and trying to touch the man, resulting in him having to get up and place the kid back in his seat. Alayne watches with a smile as this happens three times, and in the third one the man loses his temper and closes the pod shut with a tired sigh, keeping the kid inside.

"He just wants to help."

She's surprised by the sound of her own voice. The words come out raspy and broken and completely involuntary, but it's the truth. She knows what the kid is trying to do, even if she won't tell the man. She doesn't trust him one bit to share such information, no matter how kind he's been to her so far. He's still the one who captured her and who'll bring her to her execution. The man stares at her for a few seconds, resuming his efforts on trying to cauterize his wound. Alayne rolls her eyes, and with a sigh, she starts moving, struggling a bit to sit up, but managing. She's right, the left sleeve of her shirt is gone, and the scraps are tied around her shoulder, makeshift bandages that already started to look dirty. The pressure on her head is smaller now that she's up, and she lifts her fingers, touching until she finds a bacta patch near her hairline. That's quite generous, considering that the man himself is struggling to fix his own wound.

"I can give you a hand with that if you want."

She's unsure if that's the right thing to say but she wants to repay him somehow, not liking that she's now in his debt, since he's still her captor. But the man won't even lift his helmet to look at her, and a frustrated sigh escapes through her lips.

"Tell me, cowboy," she says, exhaustion getting the best of her temper. She's been kidnapped, she's been shot at, and now she's being ignored. "Have you ever seen a woman cry? Cause if you don't start talking to me I'm gonna burst into tears and I have a feeling that will make you terribly uncomfortable."

 _You gotta know how to talk to people so you can get what you want._ That's something Baelish taught her, and she hates that he's right. The man looks at her, quiet still, but she hears him sigh as his hand gestures at her to come closer. She scrambles to her feet, slowly, almost tripping on the way to him, but he keeps quiet and she's thankful for that. As she lowers herself next to him, he hands her the cauterizer, helmet tilted down towards his wound.

"Ever used one of these before?"

"Yes," she lies.

The man sighs. She notices he does that quite often. "Finger on the trigger and keep your hand steady. Stop only when the wound is fully closed."

The pen is heavier than she expects, but once she gets used to it it's pretty easy. She works on his arm, the sound of the cauterizer filling the silence between them. After a while, when his wound is almost closed, she feels like it's safe to ask.

"What's your name?"

She realizes her mistake because his hand clenches into a fist. Keeping her eyes down, she tries to make up for it. "I mean, not your name. I know you don't have a name. Or maybe you do, but I know you won't tell me. I was just wondering if you have like a nickname or something, because I need to call you something, right? I mean, I can call you _sir_ if you want but that just feels terribly impersonal and after what we've been through so far I feel li—"

"Just call me Ranger."

His voice is low, clipped through the helmet's modulator. Alayne bites the inside of her cheek not to laugh. What kind of a name is Ranger? Did he choose that himself? Was that assigned to him? Do they all call each other rangers? If Arya was here she would laugh for sure, the kind of laughter that turns into a snort after a while, that you have to hold your tummy so you can stop shaking. Her eyes water at the memory of laughing with her sister. The sister of the girl she used to be before Alayne. _Before._ Her mood drops quickly. There's no use in thinking about such things. She focuses on finishing her job.

"I'm Alayne."

She needs to keep being Alayne for now. She hopes it won't have to be forever.

"That's pretty."

The cauterizer pen dies in her hands. She looks up at the Ranger, stunned. He seems stunned as well, even if she can't see his face, she feels it in the way he holds himself impossibly still. Was that a compliment to her name? A trace of personality? Alayne thinks she might have imagined it, but the way the Ranger takes the pen from her hands tells her that he indeed said that out loud, when he clearly didn't mean to. She could use that against him in the future, if necessary. If he thinks her name is pretty maybe he thinks she's pretty too. She knows most men find her desirable, especially humans. She can definitely use that at her advantage. A plan starts forming in her head, but for it to work she needs time, needs to convince the Ranger she hasn't caught onto him yet. She rises without a word, coming to sit near the kid's pod. She opens it up, revealing his adorable little face, huge eyes focused on her. Alayne can't help but smile at him. She loves him with all her heart, and she knows he loves her too, and that's enough. If all must end soon, at least she had that, a companion through the hell that's been the past five years, a friend, someone like her, lost, with no family, and with too much to hide.

"Here."

She's cradling the kid on her lap as the Ranger speaks, her head turning to see him offering her a canteen. Water. _Oh stars bless him._ She takes it, popping the lid open with just one hand, her lips pursing around the edge of the metal, her throat appreciating the feel of the liquid. Water, a precious thing in Arvala-7, a precious thing to the whole galaxy. Most species can't live without water for long. She tries to contain her excitement, not allowing any drops to fall down her chin. There's no good in wasting such a precious thing. And she also tries to be mindful of herself, not drinking too much of the Ranger's precious water so she won't appear selfish. _Use your mind._ All her actions must be planned now, even the way in which she looks back at him, the smile on her face, the gratitude in her eyes.

"Thank you," she says, her voice low, close to a whisper. All a planned act, to trick him, lure him, and she hopes it's working.

The Ranger takes the canteen back, and gestures towards the place where she'd been sleeping. "Get some rest. We'll move at first light."

She nods to him once, kissing the kid in his tiny forehead before putting him back on the pod. _Goodnight, friend. I'll see you in the morning._ He coos at her before settling himself against his rags, and she walks back to her resting spot, noticing that the soft surface where her head had been laying is the Ranger's cloak. _Good,_ she thinks. A sign that he's already fond of her. Hope begins to grow on her chest, and she tries to smother it down. There's no point in hoping for things only to be disappointed later, and she'll execute her plan with precision, without having to hold on to silly wishes.

"Goodnight, Ranger," she tells him, closing her eyes, mind already racing with strategy. She thinks he won't reply, and the low voice that catches her ears surprises her in a good way.

"Goodnight, Alayne."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised, a new chapter <3
> 
> your feedback is much appreciated, so please leave a comment telling me your thoughts!
> 
> ill try to update this fic once a week but sometimes it can take me a little longer because im in the process of moving.
> 
> also any mistakes are my own :) thanks for reading, follow me on tumblr for more jonsa and star wars content xxxx


End file.
